


D'entre les mers, j'entends vos Pleurs.

by fassenheimr (svartalfheimr)



Series: aerial view: attrape-moi si tu peux [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Feels, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Synesthesia, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Wanda-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svartalfheimr/pseuds/fassenheimr
Summary: Wanda thinks Pietro should've been the one to survive. He wouldn't have put them into this mess. Steve thinks it's bad for her to speak about herself that way. She doesn't care; Sam's probably a continent away from his soulmate because of her.An IronFalcon soulmate AU, in which Tony knew all along that Sam was his soulmate, but Sam didn't.





	D'entre les mers, j'entends vos Pleurs.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my work “Dans le royaume des airs, nous sommes des Dieux.”
> 
> Unfortunately, I don't think it can be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> This one took so much time to write! I've been struggling with a writer's block for the past months, and boy, how difficult of a journey it had been. I wanted Wanda to be more than just a simple tool for me to move the story forward and trying to get inside her head has been one hell of a challenge.  
> I feel like I'm repeating myself every time, but this one is full of angst. Wanda is in a very, very bad place. She's going to be happy eventually; I promise. 
> 
> ✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:*this whole series is a huge angst fest i'm so sorry *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧
> 
> Matt helped me a lot with this, so all the love goes to him. ♥
> 
> English is not my primary language ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The first thing she remembered after the Raft was seeing the world in shades of red and feeling Clint's breath on her forehead, his lips moving on the crown of her hair as his hand stroked her arm softly. She didn't understand his mumblings at the time, too caught up in pain, her skin burning everywhere and her mouth tasting ash. She was enveloped by his body radiating warmth almost like a protective cocoon and yet cold seeped through her bones, her blood – a glaring contrast to the hotness of her skin. She remembered gripping his forearm so tightly her nails drew blood, but she didn’t remember hearing him complain. He probably didn’t.

 

Wanda fell into a drug-induced sleep after that. The following days had been her own little hell. Her body had undergone nightmarish withdrawals - whatever they gave her in the Raft, her body had quickly accustomed to; she almost felt betrayal at it. They were killing her, painfully slow, and her body had not resisted. Her mind had shattered.

 

For weeks, she hadn't been able to stay alone. She had craved contact. The sheer thought of losing the ability to touch another human being had sent her through several panic attacks.

 

Nobody has touched her in the Raft. Not even doctors. She had been kept in a box, sent food through an IV, cleaned up by machines. And this time, she didn't have Pietro besides her. Nobody was beside her. Nobody talked to her. Nobody saw her.

 

Sam was the first to find her. He had found her constricted and gasped, eyes going wide. Had frozen on the spot, really, unable to move for a couple seconds. It had felt like hours for Wanda, days. Clint had been the first to touch her - had to let go of her when Wakadan doctors asked Steve to take him away. One of the nurses had kept the tip of her fingers on Wanda's wrist the whole time. She hadn't been checking her pulse. She had known. (if Wanda could remember her face, her name, maybe she would've looked for her. Faced her. Hugger her even, maybe.)

 

*

 

“I like it here, I do. I mean, except for the fact that that's probably the first time as a straight white male that I feel like a minority, and God, that's really something I never thought I would experience – wait, that sounded bad. Like racist bad, right? Anyway. Erm. What I'm trying to– What I mean is… It's really beautiful here and all, and you guys are great, but… I can't stay. I would if it wasn't for Cassie…”

 

“I know, Scott. She's waiting for you.”

 

“I'm still not okay with what they did to you.”

 

Wanda smiled. It almost looked genuine.

 

“Your girl needs you.”

 

*

 

A couple of months had passed since Scott had left. Clint had gone back to the Farm. She remembered that day as if it was yesterday, his words a deep purple, as many lies are. _I'll be back. I promise you, Wanda. I'm gonna raise hell, I'm gonna find a way, and you're gonna come home with us, I swear to you I-_

 

After that, Steve held her hand whenever he could. Whenever he was with her. He never said anything about it, just did what Clint had done before.

 

Once he had held her hand when they were sitting on the balcony, the starry night sky of Wakanda in front of them. Sam had come behind her, had put his arm around her, his head on her shoulder. She had cried. Steve had kissed her on the crown of her hair, where Clint had been mumbling nonsense to lull her to rest. He had kissed her and she had cried more, ignored the way her shoulder dampened where Sam's head laid, had let herself cry at Steve's indigo words. _You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay._

 

One night, Wanda slept with her head on Natasha's legs, the redhead's hand stroking her hair, just like Clint did. She heard her slipping away in the middle of the night, her voice a rich green. _You're stronger than this, little one._

Natasha never came back. She never said she would.

 

Nobody came back.

 

*

 

There were voices coming from the kitchen, one indigo, and the other aquamarine. They came from the same kitchen Wanda sometimes confused with the one in the Facilities. It was probably the way they both looked sleek, cut out of magazines, futuristic from what she was used to. When she had doodled again with her powers (it had been something she had postponed for a while, afraid of what would happen), she had started seeing Vision in it. Cooking meals he could see but couldn’t taste. Experimenting. She didn't let herself ponder on how real it usually felt.

 

When she understood what the voices were saying, she hovered behind a door, hidden, as Pietro and she did when they tried to listen in on their parents' conversations. The indigo sounded anxious, frustrated even, whereas the aquamarine meant a placating calm, the rich tone almost indicating that the conversation was closed.

 

“They will not let her sign. Not with what you asked.”

 

“These are basic human rights, your Highness. They can't strip her away of that. They can't– she's lost. She's a kid who's seen too much.”

 

“She is not ‘just a kid,’ Captain. She's much more than that.”

 

“She's young and fragile, and she didn't ask for any of—”

 

Wanda went back to her room way before saying something she would regret.

 

_They'll never accept me. Never trust me. Never love me._

 

_You'd better accept it yourself because I did._

 

*

 

Wanda spent many nights staring at the night sky on the common balcony. Sometimes, Sam stayed with her, their shoulders touching while they laid down on the ground.

 

Their friendship was a simple one, that did not require much from one another, based on platonic touches and silent conversations. They never talked about what kept them awake, why sometimes they would be staring at the stars but seeing something else entirely. They just shared those moments together, a mutual understanding between them of common sufferings and loneliness.

 

She asked him one night. Sam had replied after a while, his voice a soft hum which reminded her of a euphonium, the marigold tone breaking the minutes passed in silence, just after she thought he wouldn't answer.

 

_Are you afraid?_

 

_Yes. Not of you, though._

 

_Then what are you afraid of?_

 

_This._

 

He had shown her. Sat back, pulled up his shirt and laid a gentle hand on his stomach. Wanda at first only saw his skin, the dark making it harder to properly see, but when he turned at her, the moonlight making the words visible, she stopped herself from a violent shudder.

 

She knew this writing. Knew who it belonged to. Knew the voice it belonged to – the deep fuchsia that made her angry for many years. Sam didn't, not yet. Wanda wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

 

Sam laid back down, and she followed him. She stroked her left hip with the tip of her index finger, where she knew something that shouldn't be here was. Something Pietro had never been able to see, something that wasn't here when he was. If she thought about it hard enough, maybe it would go away.

 

*

 

“They call me Witch.”

 

Sam seemed at ease. More than Wanda had ever seen him. The market they were visiting was in the capital. It was odd for her, she could almost see similarities with the ones at home where she and Pietro used to buy fruits, yet everything was different. So many colors, so many scents; it was a little overwhelming for her. Sam stopped at a stand, the young girl selling homemade necklaces giggling when he tried one.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Wanda almost startled. She was so engrossed in focusing on one sound at a time – the lily-white sound of the water splashing faintly in a fountain nearby – as not to lose her balance that the marigold she was so used to disrupted her sound bubble. She stared at the gold pendant sitting on his chest and realized it looked beautiful on his red shirt. She sighed, gazing at the Dora Milaje four feet away, leaving them space yet still being close to them. She nodded in their direction.

 

“That's what _they_ told me. When we walk on the streets, most people stare at me. They always said the same word behind my back, so I asked what it meant. Witch.”

 

Sam chuckled. He took two necklaces, gave money to the seller and handed Wanda one – a crimson knot that probably had a meaning she did not know. When she had stared at it, Sam had rolled his eyes.

 

“That's for you. It'll look better on you than me, girl.”

 

The evening after, when she had worn it, Sam had grinned.

 

“You know, you're worrying too much. I'm pretty sure nobody knows you here. Wakanda had been closed off for decades. My guess? They call you a witch cause you're white. Hell, their eyes always bug out when they see Steve, and I'm pretty sure that's because most of them never saw white people before.”

 

Wanda smiled shyly, remembering something. 

 

“Last week, children came surrounding him and kept touching him. Steve didn't know what to do.”

 

Sam outright laughed.

 

“See? They probably just think you guys are weird.”

 

“That does not appease me, Wilson.”

 

“Well, Steve's weirder than you. He pours the milk first. And that, Maximoff, is definitely weird.”

 

 

*

 

Weeks later, she woke up in the middle of the night to a gold sound that wasn't supposed to be here. She paralyzed in fear, found herself breathing again when she heard it moments later going away.

 

Wanda had walked up to her window, had looked outside and seen Sam kneeling in the rain. Yelling himself hoarse. He had looked at her with so much pain in his eyes, his hand on his stomach. He knew she knew.

 

She hadn't seen Sam for a while. She could feel him, close, nearby at least, but he was surrounded by too many emotions for her to try to reach him without him lashing out. Her powers were a curse, making her aware of her friend's disarray, aware that she couldn't do anything to change it.

 

When Sam reappeared in the common area, he had avoided her. Avoided anyone, really. Had flinched when he had seen her.

 

_Are you afraid?_

 

Wanda thought his answer might be changing.

 

*

 

_My dear friend,_

 

Wanda stared at the fountain pen in her hand. This was silly. She huffed. The therapist Steve pushed her to talk to told her writing her thoughts would help her. Such a stupidity – she hadn't needed it before, when her whole world collapsed, so she wouldn't need it now.

 

She couldn't write in the diary Sam gave her. He offered it to her weeks ago, when they were still talking before his soulmark had finally been said. Wanda couldn't make herself write in it now, it felt like a betrayal. If she was going to do the exercise Mr whatshisname asked her, she would do it her way.

 

Wanda had always loved writing letters. Call her old fashioned, but it felt intimate – words written by her own hand, not twisted nor edited. She sighed, staring at the offending piece of paper, but kept writing a letter she would never send.

 

_It's been a while. Maybe too long. I'm not sure._

_I lay awake at nights thinking of the last time I saw you – I think I dream it sometimes. I'm never sure these days._

 

Wanda did not write that she was never sure of anything, these days. She snorted. She's omitting truths in a letter no one but her would ever see; if that didn’t say something about her deranged mind, she'd be damned.

 

_Several nights ago, I thought you were visiting me. I could feel your presence nearby. I never saw you, never knew if I was just pretending or if you were really here._

_I miss you. I think I do._

_So many things have changed since that day. I don't recognize myself anymore, and I can't say you would. Pietro wouldn't._

 

She always tried to never go down that path, but sometimes she hadn't been able to help herself. Sometimes, Wanda wondered what would've happened if Pietro was still alive, wondered if people would have accepted her, wondered if the Accords would've been something else entirely. Wanda wondered once what the world would have been if it had been her instead of her brother. She figured it would've been a better place.

 

_Scott left. He signed the Accords – I think he couldn't bear staying so far from his daughter. Some days I wish I could sign them too. I don't think anyone wants me to. Steve doesn't want me to. Sam– well, Sam I don’t know. Sam doesn't look at me anymore._

_Things have changed in here. It was never a happy place to begin with, but these days the tension is unmistakable. I don't think Sam is going to stay here much longer. I hope you will take care of him, just like you did with me._

_I miss you so much._

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

The looming presence would've scared her if she didn't recognize the indigo it brought. Wanda took a glance up at Steve. She didn’t let herself reflect on the conflicting emotions his face bore. She put the fountain pen on the side, took the piece of paper in her left hand and let it swirl with her power. It hovered around her fingers, the red mist soothingly twirling all over the letter. Little by little the mist consumed it. Neither Steve nor her said a thing. They stared at the unnatural fire in her hand, at the way ashes disappeared when they went too far from her hands as if they never existed in the first place. They kept staring at it until the end, the silence only interrupted by the low hum of her power. When nothing was left, she flexed her hand and put it on her lap. She looked up again, her smile soft, stared at the way his face calmed, even though his eyes betrayed his torment. She sighed through her nostrils, hugged herself and averted her eyes.

 

“I know you are.”

 

She didn't say it wasn't his fault. It was cruel, but Wanda was a cruel person. It was something that grew inside her the day she came back to the surface with her brother, the day she swore vengeance upon Stark.

 

She knew it wasn't his fault. People would never accept her. People would always fear her – it was meant to happen. For a while, she stupidly thought she could prevent it, that she could change the way people would see her.

 

She killed twelve men when she tried.

 

“Don't.”

 

Steve crouched and put his hands on her shoulders. She feigned ignorance. She heard him sigh heavily.

 

“More people would have died. So much more. If we hadn't intervened, the number of casualties would have been higher. You know that, Wanda.”

 

The _We've been over this before_ was left unsaid, but she wanted to argue nonetheless.

 

“It doesn't justify it.”

 

Steve met her words with silence and squeezed her shoulder unconsciously, not enough to hurt, but enough that she knew she didn't imagine it. Wanda stopped herself from snorting at Steve trying to make her understand his point of view by sheer force of will. Steve Rogers might be one of the greatest tacticians the Avengers could have ever hoped for, but he was never one to express himself easily. She wondered if that was why he and Stark always argued. Stark was a man of action, who needed people to be quick and concise. Steve needed time to fully form his opinion without putting his foot in his mouth – not that he was ever going to say that whenever he had to, blame it on his pride or his stubbornness. No wonder their arguments tore the team apart.

 

She put her hands on his and slowly took them on her lap. She kept running soothing patterns on his palms with the tip of her fingers, the same way she had done when Pietro had been plagued by nightmares when they were younger.

 

“I don't know how to fix this. Don't know if I can.”

 

His voice was steady, his tone plain, but his eyes betrayed how true the words rang. Steve was lost. Under other circumstances, Wanda would've laughed at the way Steve felt responsible for every bad thing that happened to the world. Sam once said the Captain had been lucky to have such broad shoulders since he carried the weight of the whole world – a modern Atlas burdened by the suffering of all.

 

Wanda took his hands in hers, squeezed them softly, and Steve looked up at her eyes, her soft smile that didn't truly hide the sadness of her words.

 

“You can't make people love me.”

 

He frowned stubbornly and opened his mouth only to close it with a frustrated sigh. _Yes, I can_. Wanda shook her head. Only Steve.

 

“Stop fighting windmills, Steve. Fight where you can. Where you have to.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know what I mean. Your battle awaits you next door.”

 

She nodded to Sam's bedroom, which could be seen from her window. Steve grimaced, took his hands back and started rubbing them absent-mindedly on his arms, before catching himself and crossing his arms on his chest. Then tried to put them alongside his body. So much fidgeting, it made Wanda raise an eyebrow inquiringly – Steve wasn't one to be so self-conscious of his body when he was distressed, he usually kept himself straight, maybe a little bit hunched as not to appear too intimidating considering his height. He was a man whose movements were deliberate, cautious; Wanda knew he was constantly aware of how much damage he could do if he stopped being so careful.

 

He sighed heavily before speaking.

 

“It's- it's complicated.”

 

“You made it that way.”

 

Steve flinched at her words. Wanda knew she was being harsh and unhelpful, but she also knew Steve was the one who put Sam in this situation. Sometimes, she questioned this, wondered if he truly was at fault; Sam was a grown man, with his own thoughts and judgment. Perhaps she was just bitter. She being here was no one's fault but her own, and she knew how painful to be aware of it was. If Sam wasn't the one to blame for what happened to him, it would at least ease things for him, if only a bit.

 

Steve swallowed hard and nodded, his head held down when he came to the same conclusion.

 

“You're right. I shouldn't have dragged him into this whole mess.”

 

He let escape a heavy sigh, a deep blue that reminded Wanda of the lake her parents used to bring Pietro and her to during the summer.

 

They did not talk for the rest of the evening. They stayed in the same position, his hands on her lap, and before drifting off, Wanda felt him carrying her to her bed, his fingers stroking her hair softly, and heard the maroon of her door closing, Steve's step slowly going further away.

 

*

 

_Are you afraid?_

 

_Why would I be? I'm dreaming. And you're here._

 

_Then why didn't you tell him?_

 

_Tell who what, Pietro?_

 

_Tell Vision he's your soulmate._

 

_Because I am not his._

 

*

 

Natasha was in the living room, with Steve, in the middle of the night. Wanda stopped dead in her tracks when she heard them, but even though they couldn't see her, Natasha had probably already noticed she was here. Wanda heard Steve speaking, and couldn't make herself go back to her room.

 

The indigo betrayed worry. She didn't hear a deep green response to the frantic ramblings.

 

Wanda realized they were talking about Sam. She felt a pang of guilt. Whenever they talked about her, it wasn't good – it would probably be the same for him. She almost wished they talked about her.

 

When she heard Natasha pronouncing Stark's name, her stomach knotted. She padded softly closer to them, still hidden behind the corridor wall.

 

“He's looking worse every day. I think he regrets the way you two parted ways.”

 

“I couldn't– Nat, I didn't have a choice. It was–”

 

“Bucky. I know.”

 

“But Sam… Sam's mistake was to follow me, and he did it because he trusted me.”

 

“Why the past tense?”

 

“It's… complicated.”

 

Steve sighed heavily. Natasha let him ponder.

 

“Sam… Sam deserves better than this. He deserves better than being a fugitive having to live miles away from his family.”

 

“Then why do you suggest?”

 

“Give him the shield. Steve Rogers might be an enemy of the State, but Captain America doesn't have to be. And Sam is more than qualified to take on the mantle, and he is the most honorable man I have ever met. He represents everything the shield stands for, and even more. He deserves it more than I ever did.”

 

Silence fell in the room. Wanda could almost picture Natasha tilting her head, her piercing eyes calculating.

 

“You've been planning this.”

 

The nervous laugh sounded indigo.

 

“Maybe.”

 

Wanda returned to her room. When she fell on her bed, she put a hand on her chest. Her heart was hammering heavily.

 

She grinned at her ceiling. Tears fell from her cheeks.

 

Sam could go home.

 

*

 

_My dear friend,_

 

_Will I ever see you again?_

 

*

 

Wanda was on the balcony. T'Challa had been with her minutes before, the two of them silently watching the forest before them. The King never did small talk. She liked him for that, liked the way he only said what was important, leaving silence to fill more conversations than pleasantries ever did. He had a charisma that tended to speak louder than words could; whenever he entered a room, everyone saw him. The fluidity of each of his movements, almost like water rippling through rocks, left Wanda unable to breathe every time she saw him. There was something about him, something about his grace, his stoicism, his gallantry and the softness underneath that reminded her of Vision.

 

T'Challa didn't trust her. Eyed her suspiciously whenever he thought she didn't see him. He was a smart man.

 

She heard two people yelling from Sam's room. She sighed. Once again, Steve probably pushed over boundaries and bullheadedly thought that to talk to Sam was the best thing to do even when the latter didn't want to. As pigheaded as the two of them were, arguments were almost routine.

 

This one, though. This one seemed more important than usual. Wanda couldn't pinpoint what made it so in the moment and would realize later that was because Sam radiated panic and anxiety, the same kind he did the night she watched him through her window, yelling in the rain, almost as if he was showing God how much pain He had straddled him with.

 

She had spent the day in the Royal Gardens – away from prying eyes, the Dora Milaje making appearances at the corner of her eyes from time to time. She had sat beneath a sycamore-fig tree and had let herself get lost in her own thoughts (she couldn't do that, she tended to lose control of her power when she did so, and the ever growing strength of it meant she had to always be in control.)

 

The last time she had done that, she had let herself grieve. She had spent so much time avoiding anything that could make her think about Pietro that she had lost control in the common kitchen of the Facilities. Clint had been the one to dare go through the thick red mist surrounding her, making a crimson shield all around her and the room. He had taken her hand softly and had talked her through it, his deep purple resonating until they could finally see each other in the room. Clint had told her it had taken him a couple of minutes to get through her. Wanda felt it had taken hours; her emotions had been in such disarray, her body might have been unmoving, her eyes staring in spaces, but her mind had been in a big turmoil.

 

Wanda startled out of her thoughts and heard herself yell when she felt a hand on her arm. The hand had quickly gone away, but Wanda felt its touch ripple all over her skin. She breathed heavily, and before she took control of it, she saw a shadow looming over her, in the red mist. Her eyes turned red and she pulled her hands towards it, a crimson wave emerging from her fingertips, sending it flying away from her. The shadow disappeared. She got up, her whole body shaking, and looked around her.

 

The garden was in shades of red. The sky was constantly shifting, a swirl of scarlet and carmine. The trees were all dead. All but one. She saw movements at the corner of her eye. She tried to pinpoint the source of it but couldn't. She saw the shadow beneath the crying willow, the only tree still alive. Its leaves moved with the wind, which she could not feel.

 

For a moment, she believed it was Pietro. Her heart beat so loud in her chest she was certain the shadow could hear it. She walked toward the shadow, her brother, her step feeling heavier and heavier the closer she got.

 

_Brother?_

 

When she was at a close distance, Wanda saw the shadow ripple. She saw its hand raise, a blinding light appearing from it, and she heard the telltale gold sound of an armor she knew would kill her. _Go figures_. She closed her eyes, a soft smile on her face, ready to face death.

 

* 

 

“Wanda? Oh my God, she's awake, find a doctor!”

 

Wanda opened her eyes at her name being called. She was in a room, inside. The ceiling was white. A constant electric blue beeped. She moaned a confused noise.

 

“Don't worry it's uh– the heart-monitoring machine. I never seem to remember its name.”

 

The last words were pronounced in a nervous laugh. Wanda realized indigo tended to sound mostly nervous these days. She looked on her left, saw Steve looking at her with worry in his eyes. He was exhausted, as much as he tried to hide it, Wanda could see it as clear as day. She took the hand he had on her bed in hers and saw the instant reaction it did in him – his whole body sagged, as if what kept him hyper alert before had gone away. His other hand was on her arm, where the shadow's had been. She didn't push it away. Steve stared at the closed door facing her.

 

“You've been… asleep. One day you go in the gardens, and you don't come back. I looked for you when the sun set and found you beneath a big tree, unconscious. When I tried to wake you up, you were… unresponsive. I carried you to Sam's room. He found your heartbeat but it was weak. You've been here ever since.”

 

His laugh was self-deprecating. He gestured at the chair he was sitting in.

 

“And I, here.”

 

Wanda understood what Steve didn't say. _I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you._

 

She tried to talk but went on a coughing fit. She drank the glass of water Steve gave her. It took her a long time to say something understandable.

 

“How long?”

 

Her voice sounded hoarse. She didn't even want to know how her body would respond, considering.

 

Steve's hand on her arm tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough that she knew she didn't imagine it. His face was hard, betraying no emotions, but his eyes showed how desperate he had been.

 

“Six weeks.”

 

 _Six weeks_. It felt like minutes to her. Her stomach knotted. She felt tears run on her cheeks but realized she wasn't the one crying, not really. Steve's emotions were projecting.

 

“H– How you– fine–”

 

“Don't worry about me, I'm… I'm fine, really. Now that you're awake, I am.”

 

“Sam?”

 

It sounded more like _saaah-ughhh_ but Wanda hoped Steve would understand.

 

His face changed. For an instant, so quick to appear and disappear that she could've imagined it. She was certain she didn't though. Steve looked at her, then focused on the door. He had kept glancing at the door since she woke up. Probably waiting for doctors, considering this was definitely not her room and she was laying on a hospital bed.

 

“He's… He went away. But it has nothing to do with you. He just had to go because…”

 

“Tony.”

 

Steve's eyes widened. He came over his shock quickly, but still looked baffled. Wanda squeezed his hand, wanting to drop the subject. Steve blinked a couple of times then nodded softly, swallowing his words.

 

Someone knocked at the door. Steve told them to come in. Bless him, because if she had had to tell them herself, they would have waited for a long time before hearing _and_ understanding her. She gulped the second glass of water Steve gave her when the door to her room closed. Her eyes went straight to the burgundy sound, tensing.

 

“Doctors are on their way. I brought chocolate.”

 

Of all people she expected to see, _he_ was not on the list.

 

Wanda saw James Buchanan Barnes hovering at her door and facing the floor, a poor attempt at covering how uncomfortable under her stare he truly was, chocolate in his hand. His only hand she realized, the prosthetic nowhere to be seen.

 

She lifted her right hand at him, palm up, and he took the gesture for what it was, a soft sigh escaping his lips and his shoulders relaxing, and gave her the chocolate. When she tried to eat it, Steve snagged it.

 

“I don't think you should eat it before the doctors had their words on this. Don't glare at me like that, I swear it's for your own good.”

 

Wanda looked at Bucky. The other man shook his head sadly, almost as an apology. Wanda huffed.

 

“I _liked_ you.”

 

Bucky laughed nervously, too loud in the silent room. It was good. It felt good. Their bubble needed something brash and loud as this chartreuse green was.

 

“Aw, doll, you gonna hurt my feelings.”

 

She rolled her eyes.

 

“No chocolate, no kindness.”

 

Wanda looked at the both of them. She smiled. She felt safe, felt she was where she had to be. Sam wasn't here, and she was happy he wasn't. He shouldn't have stayed here, he was too good for that. She saw the glint in Bucky's eyes, the way Steve shook his head at their antics, and her heart seemed lighter thinking that Sam was where he was supposed to be.

 

 _He's gone back home_.

 

 


End file.
